


Subject 3662

by wily_one24



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, angst ahoy, emma swan's mysterious and heartbreaking childhood, evil corporation, experimental fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:11:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5163371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wily_one24/pseuds/wily_one24
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t speak. Her words are shriveled up memories that refuse to obey her, but she can listen and she can drive. This is how Emma Swan, bail bonds person extraordinaire, finds herself driving a foreign but all too familiar child across the city and into no man’s land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N** : Ok, so this is a new and experimental fic. I have many a plan for this, if you are patient enough to stick with it. It will grow and expand in later chapters. It is a slow burn fic. 
> 
> **A/N** : This fic is set in S1. Any and all plot points introduced after S1 are not relevant, though they may appear depending on the direction of the fic. You will soon notice the differences... ie - Neal, as he is in canon, does not exist, and the story of Henry's conception and birth, and ergo the story of Emma's jail time, is greatly changed, but hopefully the rewrite is enough to keep Emma close to canon. 
> 
> **A/N** : This fic will deal with uncomfortable issues of abuse, the abuse of power, child abuse, human experimentation, and, given the narrative timeline, statutory sex. These will not be described in any great detail, but will be forewarned at the beginning of each relevant chapter. Emma's version of what happened is greatly skewed by the position she was in, but it is not and will not be presented as a healthy dynamic.

***

_10/23/1983  
Entry: 001 _

_Operative #7926, report: On or about the evening of October 23rd, 1983, a substantial reading of magical grade STL energy was recorded in the Maine area. Investigations commenced._

*** 

Emma Swan looks at the flame of the candle on top of her lonely little cupcake and sighs. She is not expecting the knock at her door, nor is she expecting the child see sees looking up at her. 

But she knows. The instant before he speaks, Emma knows. 

She loses her words, long fought for words, they leave her in an instant, running from her throat alongside the breath she can no longer catch. Leaning on the frame of the door, all she can see is Him. 

All she can smell is smoke and flame and blood and hear the screaming.

_-Who are you?-_

The words don’t come, but the question does, all instinct ingrained so deeply it is all she can manage in this moment. The expression on his face falls from expectant to confused and then he seems to shake it off before beaming at her with a blinding smile. 

She knows who he is, she can see Him. His Eyes. His chin. His little crop of brown hair. 

She knows, but she needs to hear it. 

“Hi. I’m Henry, I’m your son.” 

***  
_10/25/1983  
Entry: 002 _

_Operative #7926, report: the reported incident surrounds the appearance of an infant girl. Lineage unknown. Next of kin unknown. Abandoned infant discovered by an 8 year old male, also of unknown origin. Further investigations needed before action advised._

*** 

She doesn’t speak. Her words are shriveled up memories that refuse to obey her, but she can listen and she can drive. This is how Emma Swan, bail bonds person extraordinaire, finds herself driving a foreign but all too familiar child across the city and into no man’s land. 

He is alive. 

That’s the thought that bounces inside her skull. Alive and thriving and confident and comfortable in this loud and obtrusive world, he has been well cared for and loved and she aches with the welcome knowledge. 

He is alive and he doesn’t believe that she would understand about fairy tales and magic and evil. 

Her voice would laugh if it was allowed to. 

***  
_10/29/1983  
Entry: 003 _

_Operative #7926, report: investigations have confirmed infant girl emanating STL energy readings of 91% magical grade. Infant is without a doubt from Misthaven. Associated 8 year old male shows negligible readings and has been dismissed. The infant has been secured to be bought to the Pheonix facility for isolation and immediate study._

***

“Henry!” 

A woman runs down a garden path, voice breaking as she heads straight for her son, wrapping him up in an embrace that looks warm, that looks real. 

Emma watches. Emma aches. 

Emma remembers a tiny little bundle in her arms and the tears that came after he was pulled away. 

“I found my real mom!” 

She jerks her head back at the intrusive words, just in time to see the stunned and hurt look on his mother’s face. The echoes of his footsteps are a precursor to the slamming of the door and Emma tries to hide the flinch of it. 

“You’re Henry’s birth mother?” 

Deep brown eyes are boring into hers, all hurt and worry and misplaced anger. Emma thinks of white hot electricity in her veins and the echo of orders given, she thinks of the muscle memory of never ending swim laps. She thinks of looking down at her first piece of cake and not knowing what it was. 

Her throat muscles fight her as she pushes them, strains, takes everything she has until she can croak out one little word. 

“Hi.” 

***  
_04/14/1984  
Entry 026:_

_Operative #7926, report: Infant 3662 is developing along normal parameters for her age. Appropriate milestones have been reached. No outward signs of controllable power have been noted, though measurable emanations of STL remain._

_Infant 3662 appears to charm many caregivers. Any overt signs of affection are discouraged to ensure the impact of this realm is minimised and any and all remnants of Misthaven are conserved. Several staff members have been let go due to unfortunate attachments. The infant must remain isolated at all costs, beyond necessary physical care._

***

When you do not speak, Emma Swan has learned, you learn many things. Most people are uncomfortable with silence and will fill it with information they’re too busy producing sound to monitor. Words tumble out. 

And Regina Mills, mother of the child that sprang from her, is no different. 

A single mother, a caring mother, a mother whose son believes her evil in a world trying to prove he’s wrong. Emma watches carefully. 

She is no stranger to hidden motives. 

Ten years she has been _out_ , but this house, this room, this woman, this entire town feels so much like _in_ that her nerves are screaming at her to run. She can feel it like flames licking the insides of her skin, small tendrils of fire that want to burn her from the inside out. Run, Emma, run, they scorch across the veins and arteries that pump her blood. 

She’s a rat in a maze. 

She always has been, but this time she’s not familiar with the maze. 

“And Henry’s father?” Pushed past the point of tolerance, Regina pushes for an answer that cannot be denied. “Ms Swan? Do I need to be worried about him, too?”

Emma is thrown carelessly back to yellow walls and the weight of a man, hazel eyes, and a messy cowlick. The flames come alive in her memory and she can almost see them flickering up the walls, smell the smoke that coated her lungs, and hear the screams that followed her out of the building and into the cuffs that slammed around her wrists. 

_-Dead.-_ She sees the confusion and the horror flicker across Regina face as the air pushes out of her throat, scrambling to make a word. _-Dead. Death.-_

Their eyes meet and Emma wants to close hers at what she sees: damning empathy. 

_-I killed him.-_

Her knees buckle and the room spins around her, her vision goes blurry a second before she begins to fall. Emma expects the floor, she expects the drop and the harsh landing. 

She does not expect the hand at the small of her back to catch her.  
***

_ 05/07/1986  
Entry 216: _

_Operative #7926: At approximately 16:25 on May 7th 1986 an incident occurred that has dramatically shaped the care and plan for project 3662. Previous to this point the subject has displayed no signs of controlling any of the power emitted as STL energy._

_During this incident, lasting approximately two minutes, the subject emitted an unprecedented amount of STL energy, immediately overwhelming and breaking all monitoring equipment. No other changes were observed in physicality, including temperature, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, respiration, and colour._

_There was no apparent target in the immediate room of the subject, but later it was discovered that a pair of operatives not connected to the subject three wards apart were involved in an altercation in which one operative attempted to assault the other._

_It is apparent Subject 3662 used enough controlled power to protect the operative under attack. This occurred without direct contact or direct attachment to either operative or subject._

_It has been decided that Subject 3662 is to be moved to an isolated facility, with even stricter controls on personnel. Only five operatives have been cleared to proceed further with this Subject. Any and all knowledge of the subject will be cleared from the public conscious._

_Strictly non-verbal communication is to be used with the Subject from here on out. Any use of the limited verbal communication allowed the subject this far is to be prohibited by any force necessary._

***

Getting out of that house, getting away from that woman, is the best move Emma has made. 

She can breathe in the open night air, standing on the street with her hands and forehead resting on the roof of her car. Her fingers cling to the cold metal and she feels the heat of her pulse rushing through the skin of her forehead contrasting with it, too. 

She is good, Emma forces herself to think, Regina is good and Henry is loved and cared for and protected. 

But Emma cannot forget those all too interested eyes, the ones that searched her, that felt too scrutinizing, like she was back under a microscope being measured and assessed and notated. Regina sees too much. 

And Henry’s theory… 

Looking up, Emma sees the moon amidst the stars, her eyes scanning the sky. It’s a habit she has formed. The sky is limitless, the sky has no boundaries, the sky comforts her in a way that nobody’s hands have ever. 

A look to her left and she sees a face in a high up window. 

_-Stay.-_

It comes to her strong and hard and heartfelt, a physical force, and she has had years to decipher the emotions behind the pushes of thought. And this one is strong. 

She lifts her hand in a light little wave and the curtain swings shut behind a hopeful little nod. 

This is how Emma finds herself trudging up the steps of a bed and breakfast, taking a swan shaped key from the quaint little owner and her granddaughter, giving a side eye to man who trills her name like he’s tasting it on her tongue. 

This place makes the syllables of her name sound strange to her, makes them feel odd and ill shaped like a hand me down sweater she has never grown into. Her teeth grit at the memory of cold, sharp angled numbers, and she inhales. 

Only to exhale at the sound of a clock booming across the town. 

Emma Swan has started time again. 

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wants to speak about fear and panic and prejudice and how people treat her like a child when they assume she does not speak aloud. There is a difference between silence and harmlessness, a world of difference between speechless and voiceless. She has power nobody has seen in this land, power that crumbled buildings and scared grown men, power she has kept controlled for a decade. 
> 
> And she suspects power is something this woman understands very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Warnings were given in the first chapter, but it bears repeating: themes of child abuse, misuse of power and authority, etc, etc... Emma did not have a great childhood. Please use your own discretion upon reading this fic.

***

Emma sits in her room and rolls her tongue, forcing the sound of the Rrrrs to roll off it. She can do this. Ten, eleven years ago, she had done it before. Sitting in her cell, imitating the sounds of speech as her breasts ached and her milk dried.

It’s ridiculous that her voice has left her again. 

When she's stressed, she struggles with speaking. It's a habit borne from years of punishment. Just the sound of her voice is enough to expect the backlash. Her nerves stretch and tighten. Outside the facility she has trained herself out of this, but she is not able to shake it completely. 

And having her son appear ten years after she mourned his death to drag her to a small town he believes peopled with magical fairy tale creatures is definitely stressful. 

She has reverted, she has turned back the clock to the years in that place, seeing one man's face and depending on him for everything. Her limbs automatically make themselves small, her breathing makes itself steady and strong and inaudible. 

Her brain itches with the need to move, to run, to test the limits of her confinement. 

The knock on the door makes her flinch and she hates it, hates the fear she has trained herself not to feel. 

Regina is there, she should have known, of course she should have known, with her too bright smile and curious intense eyes. 

And a basket of apples. 

Emma stares at the hand that holds a glowing red apple out at her like an offering. 

“Did you know the Honeycrisp tree is the most vigorous and hearty of all the apple trees?”

Emma cares very little about varieties of apples, but she cannot tear her eyes away as Regina describes it and the tree grown in her own garden. She imagines leaves and branches and fruit reaching for the sun. 

Her mouth opens and she manages a croak. 

“I want.”

It's inarticulate and messy and Regina does not disappoint with the furrow between her brows and a head tilt of confusion. 

_-Show me your tree.-_

She does not miss the dark eyes that slide down and then up, feels the interest in her body she suddenly remembers is not completely dressed, but most of all she feels the confusion and interest and speculation that always comes with the push. 

“Did you just...?” Regina blinks and breathes in, as if she herself cannot believe she is going to say the words. “... speak inside my head?”

Emma nods and her shoulders sag with relief. 

There are many reactions when it comes to people finding out about her abilities, even the minor ones like pushing thought, but somehow she knows that this one, this woman, will not be a negative one. 

She holds up a finger, asking for patience as she closes the door and looks for her pants and shoes. 

When she is sitting in the passenger seat of a mercedes, and of course this woman has such a nice car, Emma cradles a bright red apple in her hand and examines the blemish free skin. 

“You don't talk much, do you?” Emma shrugs at the question, the answer too complex and intricate to enter into this very moment. “I suppose you wouldn't need to, not with an ability like that.”

She wants to talk about fear and panic and how using such abilities is not wise around those not familiar with them, about the effort it took to teach herself to speak clearly and concisely enough not to be noticed, about sitting across the restaurant from a man the night before and how he laughed at her introductory speech as if she were just anyone and not notable in any sense. 

“You confuse me, Emma.” Regina looks at her out the side of her eye before looking back at the road. “I want to dislike you very much, because you're a threat to me and my son.”

She wants to speak about fear and panic and prejudice and how people treat her like a child when they assume she does not speak aloud. There is a difference between silence and harmlessness, a world of difference between speechless and voiceless. She has power nobody has seen in this land, power that crumbled buildings and scared grown men, power she has kept controlled for a decade. 

And she suspects power is something this woman understands very well. 

“But I find myself drawn to you.” The car stops and Emma smirks a little in acknowledgement before stepping out. “You are a mystery.”

There is a garden full of trees, but she knows which one is Regina's. It calls to her, grown and hale and hearty and visibly loved. Her fingers trace the green of the leaves, wet and luscious. Apples, bright and red, dot the canopy above her. Sun twinkles through the leaves and speckles her vision. She can reach out and pick one if she wants, if she hadn't just been given a basketful. 

The trunk is solid and strong and disappears into the ground, spreading roots far and wide. This tree is permanent and well tended. 

“You look envious.”

Emma nods, as intrigued and drawn to the tree as she is, she cannot forget the woman who stands just behind her. 

“I am.”

The words slip out, slick and effortless, easier than any she has spoken since she'd blown out the candle on her cupcake. 

Emma laughs.

Regina's eyes widen and then she, too, smiles. 

***

__ 11/12/1989  
Entry 684:  


_Operative #7926: Subject 3662 underwent the fourth sensory deprivation experiment. The results provided a temporary rise in magical grade STL energy, from 91 to 95%. Time in the floatation tank reached four hours._

_By the second hour, a complete transition from alpha and beta waves to theta waves was recorded. States of consciousness are incomplete during hours three and four. It is uncertain whether the subject was fully aware during this time span._

_After being removed from the tank, subject was observed to have decreased ability to perform manual as well as cognitive processing tasks. The subject was, however, observed to use extra sensory perception to compensate._

***

Emma dreams in emotion. 

She cannot remember a time dreaming in pictures or sound or stories. Her dreams are waves of thought brought forth in crashing of feelings. There are no people, but the presence of them, no words but the understanding of them. 

When she wakes, jack knifing upright, her skin is slick with sweat and her hands scramble in the threadbare sheet, fingers digging aimlessly and feet sliding out and in, desperate to feel. To feel _anything_. The small lamp on the bedside table glows softly. She sleeps with it on. 

Emma does not cope well in complete darkness. 

Similarly, the small clock radio she brings everywhere is crinkling with a static filled rendition of music set to the lowest audio possible. A glass of water with a slice of lemon sits next to it. One quick sniff and then she sips slowly. She counts them off, one by one: touch; sight; sound; smell; and taste. 

Only then does her breathing slow down and her heart rate drop. 

There are no hands, she reminds herself as she slides her feet out of the bed and drops them, one by one, to the floor. No hands to reach into the nothingness and wrench her out, wrench her into the violence of reality kicking and screaming. 

Figuratively. 

The literal, she had learned very early on, would only amount to pain. 

With the beginnings of pink and orange starting to bleed into the dark night sky, Emma slips out of the bed and reaches for her running gear. 

***

Obsession has been a failing of hers for a very long time, Regina thinks.

Ever since her life was spun so spectacularly out of her control in that stable so many years ago. It came first as revenge and the desire for control, taking over her senses and her sanity, then it came to searching for her own happiness and, lastly, her most favourable obsession came in the form of Henry. 

Of course, being obsessed with good parenting and raising a happy child could hardly be a negative thing. Yet, her tendency to overdo things in that regard came out in smothering him, holding him too close, and driving him away. 

And now, as Regina lays the flowers on her father's tombstone, she has become obsessed with the enigmatic Emma Swan. 

The woman came to town exactly twenty eight years after the curse, the mother of her child, and to top it all off, she has magic. Naturally occurring magic that isn't tethered to the elements. People of this world might call them superpowers, but Regina is not from this world, none of them are, and now it is obvious that Emma isn't either. 

In their land, this is called magic and Emma Swan is going obliterate everything she has worked hard for, sacrificed for – she lets her fingers trail over the letters of her father's name – killed for. 

Stepping out of the mausoleum, Regina thinks of the file she has spent reading over and over, the information Sydney had gathered. The little information he _could_ gather. 

Emma Swan, technically, does not exist in this world. Apparently, she appeared weeks shy of her eighteenth birthday outside a burning building, offering herself up to authorities and admitting she had purposefully lit the fire and killed the man inside. It led her to a two year prison sentence. 

But there were no records on Emma Swan, none to be found, no birth certificate, no social security, no school records, no custody papers, nothing. Just a girl with soot on her face and an inability to protect herself from the legal system. 

There is a lot to be found _after_ she served her sentence. Vagabond, homeless, casual work, bail bonds person, tear away Emma Swan, who left a trail searching for the burial place of an infant son. The trail that Henry had found. 

Regina should, as she herself said to the woman, loathe Emma. 

She represents insecurity and the loss of Regina's already unravelling comfort. It's not loathing she feels, however, as she spies a flash of colour streaking through the grey misting dawn across the edge of the cemetery. 

It's intrigue. 

Another of her weakness: mysteries.

She follows the woman on her morning jog, keeping her distance but staying close enough not to lose her. There is something hypnotic about the way Emma moves, rhythmic, the bunching of muscles behind her shoulders as her arms swing in tandem to the slapping of her feet on the forest floor. Her long hair bounces in a ponytail. 

And Emma... Emma is lost to the morning, to the air, to the space around her. Regina could be two feet in front of her and she doubts Emma would notice. 

She should call out, announce herself, she should turn back and leave Emma to what is obviously a ritual. But she doesn't. For some reason she cannot stop watching the woman, the strange creature that says so many things with her eyes and not her mouth, that has power even Regina cannot measure, but chooses not to use it most of the time. 

She cannot blame Henry for being entranced, for wanting to spend every waking moment with her, were Regina ten years old again she would have little self control. 

Regina wants to study Emma, like a greedy child with a new toy, examine her from every angle and discover what she can do and how, learn where she disappeared to for eighteen years and why she was not surprised to find the child she thought dead on her doorstep very much alive ten years later. 

She also wants to quash whatever this tempting thread of need is, because Emma is by very definition dangerous. She will be the end of Regina, of her everything, of Henry. 

Regina will survive without Henry. Of this she has no doubt. She has survived everything thrown at her so far, but she does not like to think what it will do to her, how it will leave her, what she will do to the world around her without a tether. 

Without her notice, too caught up in her introspection, she has not noticed Emma stop at the edge of the stream. The water runs fast and cloudy, a cacophony of the unknown, treacherous under the bridge, but it is not the water Regina stares at. 

It is Emma, streamlined, sweaty Emma, peeling off the outer layers of her clothes until she stands in gym shorts and sports bra. Regina eyes the skin of her back, the muscle tone layered like it has been drawn on. 

For the first few seconds, all Regina can see is the skin and the lines of Emma's body, and then her eyes catch up with her. The details make themselves clear. Lines that have nothing to do with exercise, smooth patches of shiny pink skin that pull at the taut muscle bands around them, the scars across the woman's back. 

Large and permanent and old, old, well healed scars. 

Then Emma dives head first into the icy water and leaves Regina leaning back against a tree trunk, her fingers curling into an empty fist and her lungs struggling to breathe. 

***

__ 07/31/1996  
Entry 2126:  


_Operative #7926: Subject 3662 collapsed at approximately 1415. The subject continues to defy strict exercise routines. The subject has been allocated 100 laps of the training pool, no more and no less. Continuing to exceed the prescribed exercise will result in further loss of conscious states. The subject is given a strict caloric diet that will take her from one meal to the next. This reduces the risk of escape attempts as the subject will not be able to deviate from the scheduled activities._

_Further discipline required._

 

***

The thing about not speaking, not producing, is that she consumes. 

And Emma consumes _everything_. 

Fries, burgers, bear claws, hot chocolate, pasta, salad, vegetables, rice, candy; whatever is on her plate does not stay there long. Her left arm curls slightly around her plate, instinctual and protective, and her right shovels her fork to her mouth. 

She can taste every molecule, despite the plethora of voices in her head, many people over the years that had both laughed at and scorned her atrocious manners in equal measure, declaring that there is no possible way she could appreciate the food scarfing it down the way she does. 

But Emma does, oh, she tastes every mouthful, every single atom and texture that gets crushed between her molars and ground down. 

She does not, she refuses, to measure things out in portions, into strictly controlled and _adequate_ nutrition. 

So few people understand that her consumption goes well beyond food. They see an oaf and look no further and that's when Emma takes it all in; their defences down, they speak words carelessly, gestures and glances and voices slide into her brain. 

Regina is appalled at her apparent lack of manners; Henry is delighted. 

Emma's eyes narrow down to her fork as she tries to relax her shoulder; this is not her business, this is not her concern. 

“But Mo-oo-oom.” Henry makes the word into a three syllable plea. “Emma got a second helping.”

“This is not up for discussion.” Regina's voice, usually pleasant, is a chalkboard screeching under fingernails. “I won't tell you again.”

Emma can _feel_ the resignation swarm over her, the exact second Henry gives up hope, and her fingers curl into a fist. There is a second of silence, where the auras around her bleed into each other, the disappointment of son into the success of the mother. 

And then Emma's fist slams down hard on the table between them. The lights above them flicker as the entire diner rattles, chairs tottering against the floor and windows shaking. 

_-Let the boy have his damned milkshake.-_

Her focus narrows directly into Regina's eyes and she can see the whites there, the slight split second of fear, before Regina blinks and her mouth purses into something like distaste. 

“Fine.” To her credit, Regina's voice wavers only once. “Henry, go ask Ruby and wait at the counter.”

He does not ask for clarification, scampering away with a heart beating fast, and Emma resumes eating, using the side of her fork to cut into the pancakes swarming with syrup and cramming it all into her mouth. 

“Are you done?” She looks up to see Regina watching her, eyes sharp with calculation. “I will allow you this one, and only one, tantrum in regards to Henry. He is my son. If you think I'm impressed with those sloppy parlour tricks, then you don't know who you're dealing with.”

But she does; Emma knows much more than Regina gives her credit for. 

***

There is a kind of expectation in the room that is not silence. 

Regina's usual method of summoning someone with intimidation seems to be lost on Emma. She is infuriatingly immune to taunts and sly digs and a wheel clamp on her beloved yellow monstrosity. No, Emma Swan sits in her office, eyes large and waiting and friendly. 

The onus falls on her to speak and she cannot even be irritated, knowing as she does how little Emma actually uses words. 

With a huff, she opens the manilla folder on her desk and pulls out a sheet of paper, placing it on the desk facing outwards so the woman can read it. Then another and another, lining them up like brickwork. 

“Prison sentence.” Another paper slides onto the desk. “Bail bondsperson. Waitress. Hospital records from a broken wrist. Tenancy papers.”

She lists them off like an accusation. Emma's eyes barely blink, they slide down once or twice to verify the documents, but otherwise they continue to watch Regina. There's a curiosity, a slight quirk to Emma's neck and raise of her eyebrows as if she's trying to put the pieces together, trying to decipher exactly what Regina is asking. 

“There's a lot of information about you after you turn eighteen, Emma.” It's easy to see the thoughts that flicker across the woman's face, the expression that clears out once it becomes plain what the issue is. “But absolutely nothing about you before that.”

And Emma, infuriating, unflappable, mysterious Emma shrugs. 

“It's impossible not to leave an impression in this world.” She can feel her frustration rising. “If you are to remain here and interfere with my life and my son, I would like to know about you.”

Green eyes watch her pointedly. 

_-And where were you born?-_

She blinks. 

“I'm not sure how that's relevant.”

Emma smiles, easy and amused, but with a sharper point that suggests a challenge. 

_-Simple. You tell me and I'll tell you.-_

“I have never been outside this town.” The words slip past her tongue, the lie easy and natural. “Does that answer your question?”

Then Emma makes a clicking sound with her tongue, an obvious denial, the sound of someone who has just won an argument. 

“No.” 

Her voice is still strained and rusty, but Regina loves the sound of it, she wishes Emma would speak more often. That doesn't seem to be the case here as the woman in question stands up out of her chair, shrugging as if to ask what more she can do, then turning to leave. 

“Emma, wait.”

_-I know when you're lying.-_

Something like true fear slicks down her spine. There is a thread of conversation here that she is not prepared for. Suddenly, with a clarity she wishes she did not possess, Regina knows what's truly being asked. Her lip slides underneath her tooth and she bites down on it. 

“I... I wasn't born here.” At this, Emma turns around. “I wasn't born _here_.”

The words will have to be enough. She cannot voice it. Cannot say it out loud; it's like her mouth is frozen around the possibility. 

“Emma.” It's said like a plea, begging not to force the issue. “Please.”

“Mi...” Emma coughs on the word. “Miss...”

And Regina huffs in impatience. 

“Fine. Ms Swan. Whatever.”

But the face in front of her crinkles in annoyance. 

And then she feels something pricking the edges of her skull, not unpleasant, like a gentle query and, before she can prepare herself, she's bombarded with images. Memories. Her childhood estate, her mother, her father, Rocinante, the plants she has not seen the like of here, the greyness of the sky and the feel of electric magic at her fingertips. 

They flicker through like a slide show, impossibly fast, stealing her breath as she remembers the cold stone of the castle, the cinch of a corset underneath the heavy, white gown, purple rising clouds and anger, so much anger. 

And a baby's cry. 

“Miss...” Emma tries again, face pinched in effort. “Misthaven.”

Regina can feel the blood drain from her face, feel her veins freeze cold. She has not heard that name in twenty-eight years. And this, this confirmation from this enigma of a woman who has her own powers is nothing short of a hit to the abdomen. 

“How...?” It's all she can do to gasp the words out. “How do you know that name?”

_-It's where he told me I was from.-_

And, oh, never has Regina wished more that Emma would talk again. That the words filtering into her brain would come out of the woman's mouth and to her ears, make them easier to process. Like this, it's a half second lag as she processes the feeling into thought into understanding. It makes the whole thing stilted and bulky and all she wants to do is see inside this woman's brain. 

“Who? Who told you?”

Emma shrugs, less a gesture of the cavalier attitude she held before, and more of a distraction. A way to make it seem unimportant when Regina can see the stress that rides her hard. 

_-The man who kept me.-_

All she has to do is raise her brows, a demand for more information, and she sees the struggle in Emma's face, the same impatience with the game that she herself feels. And then Regina gasps as the images come thick and fast. 

Not memories this time. 

At least, not her own. 

A clinical room, no windows, time meaning nothing, pain and more pain, the days marked by meals bought and exercise given, the push and pull of magic being drawn out by force, and one face during it all, the same face with possessive, manic eyes. 

“Oh.” She breathes out, unable to encapsulate the horror she feels. “Oh, Emma.”

***


End file.
